Tricolore
by Ellie12
Summary: Post No Reason, the fallout of the ketamine treatment.
1. Blue

Title: Blue  
Author: Ellie  
Rating: PG13  
Spoilers: No Reason  
Summary: Post No Reason, the results of the ketamine treatment  
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski's "Trois Couleurs" trilogy, which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag. The first of three. This piece could also read as a continuation of my story "Slowly" if one so chose, though it stands on its own.

---

She stood staring down at his bedside, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his bandaged chest, and sparing enough glances at the monitors to appear she was monitoring his condition rather than him.

This was more frightening than the last time she'd stood here. Then, she'd known what to expect when he woke: anger, resentment, blame, words that truly cut rather than the standard sarcasm. This time, she had no idea what to expect; the treatment was still too experimental, too risky. If they hadn't already discussed it, that day after she found him asleep in a haze of morphine and pain, she never would have considered his whispered command to his staff.

If this went well, it would eliminate his pain. But it was not merely the leg that pained him, and the alleviation of pain would not restore utility. That loss had hurt him in a way that opiates couldn't fix.

She remembered jogging, so many years ago, around the campus at Michigan, and being overtaken by the lanky young man with the piercing eyes she'd seen stalking about the hospital, wearing a rumpled lab coat. He'd slowed, taunted her pace and shorter legs, but continued to run with her, that day and later, on cold snowy mornings when she quickened her pace enough to make him smile and keep her warm, and sunny days at exam time, when she chanted study questions under her breath and he muttered occasional corrections.

It felt like another lifetime, the easy camaraderie of youth and the sunrise miles. But perhaps this would let him walk without pain. Maybe he could get a dog, take it for walks. She tried to imagine him with something small and fluffy and snarly, a Maltese or a Shih Tzu, but knew if he ever had a dog, it would be something ugly and tenacious and sweet, a bulldog or a mastiff. She knew that sort of commitment wasn't his style.

But it was his style to suddenly find him staring at her, awake and reasonably clear-eyed. She wanted to run her hand through his hair, touch his cheek, as she had during those long quiet nights while he'd been in a coma and the hospital had been nearly empty. Instead, she settled for resting her hand on top of his.

"Welcome back," she said, her voice catching just a bit.

He nodded, then took a breath and grimaced. "What's the damage?"

"You've at least got the sense to piss off a man who was a terrible shot. Pneumothorax from a shot that also broke a rib. The shot to your neck just went through some muscle."

"Not that bit of sternomastoid you like so much?" he mumbled hoarsely, sarcasm thrown off by pain and several days of coma.

She frowned, but there was warmth in her voice as she said, "You know how angry I get when other people break my things."

This time his nod was less emphatic than before, and accompanied by a faint smile.

"Right now," she continued, back in doctor mode, "you're still on painkillers for your other injuries. As those heal and we can start weaning you off and see how your leg is feeling. For now, I doubt you'd notice it much anyway. I believe you have some experience with that phenomenon."

His lips curled into the faintest frown. "Just a little. And for the record, I'm feeling no pain. Unless I do this." He pulled a face, tensing the muscles on his neck and aggravating the wound."

"Stop that, House!" Gently swatting his bicep with the back of her hand, she frowned.

"Ow! Now I'm feeling pain! Nurse," he cried exaggeratedly, "my doctor's assaulting me!"

Cuddy just rolled her eyes and gave in to the impulse to pat his cheek. "Get some rest."

"I've been in a coma for a week! Get me the remote!" he protested.

She sighed and shook her head, but as she walked out the door, she tossed him the remote. When she heard the snap of him catching it, she smiled.

---

House grumbled as he sat in the passenger seat, tugging at the edge of the bandages on his neck, then tapping his fingers on the dashboard. "I could have taken myself home. I could have been at home hours ago."

"No you couldn't," she said, turning onto his street.

He frowned, but said nothing else. She watched as one of his hands came to rest on his right thigh, thoughtlessly keeping time with the Stones coming from the radio.

When they stopped in front of his building, she took her time getting out and let him do for himself. He'd claimed to be feeling fine after the shooting and the treatment, and she'd been watching him closely for any signs that he was lying. As he swung his legs out of the car and stood, she saw no evidence he felt anything but exhaustion and nerves.

It had been years since he walked unaided, and his leg, while no longer paining him, had lost too much muscle to ever let him walk without a limp. She stepped close to his side, as they made their way up the walk, there if he needed to steady himself, but aside from the brush of his hand across her backside as they stepped through the door, he kept to his own space.

"You don't have to babysit me," he growled, tossing his keys to the side as he entered his apartment.

"Maybe I just want to take care of you. Would that be so bad?" She put her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"People have been taking care of me for weeks. I'm sick of it." He limped emphatically down the hall to the kitchen. She wandered into the living room, absently tidying piles of books and sheet music, discarding her suit jacket over a chair piled with mail as she listened to him open then slam the fridge door, then the cabinets. Finally he wandered in with a can of Diet Coke and collapsed onto the couch.

She waited a long moment, but he simply closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch. "If you're sure you'll be fine, I'll go." Only when she started to walk away did his hand dart out, quick as a snake, and catch hers.

"Don't. Just stop with the doctor bullshit. We're not in the hospital anymore. Sit down and enjoy me not needing Vicodin to exist."

He tugged at her hand and she let him pull her down onto the couch. Slipping off her heels, she tucked her feet up on the couch and rested her head on his shoulder, careful to avoid his healing rib. "I'm glad to see that your recent medical trauma hasn't had an affect on your sunny disposition."

With a snicker, he gently jabbed her with an elbow and offered her a sip of the soda. "Thank you."

Cuddy almost didn't hear his hoarse whisper, and nearly choked on the soda when she did. She lifted her head from his shoulder and stared at him. "Who are you want what have you done with Greg House?"

"I know you didn't want to do the ketamine treatment. You made it perfectly clear when we discussed it that you wouldn't risk it while I was otherwise healthy. But when the opportunity presented itself, you did it."

The sarcastic response, telling him he was only thanking her for letting him get his way, died on her lips. He wasn't someone who said thank you lightly. Instead, she kissed his rougher-than-normal cheek. "You were going to be in a coma anyway. And I did like the idea of my own coma patient to use as a snack tray for a while."

"You've been talking to Wilson, haven't you?"

"Yes, but I'm also not oblivious to what goes on in my own hospital. You do make a good cupholder." She took the Coke from him, drinking deeply.

"It's good to know that even unconscious I'm a valuable asset."

"I thought about using you for target practice, but figured you already had enough holes in you."

"You should have gotten your shots in while you could. Now I may actually be able to outmaneuver you."

They were both quiet for a moment, before she broke the silence. "When you brought up the treatment, we discussed the fact that it would only alleviate the pain, not fix the muscle damage. I'm glad that seems to be working, but I don't want you to get your hopes up too high…" she trailed off, confused at feeling the need to lecture House about being overly optimistic.

He sighed and dropped his chin to his chest, straining his neck muscles and causing him to look up with a grimace. "I know. But with decreased pain, I'll be able to do more PT, potentially regain a bit more mobility. Just what I've done this week has helped."

She smiled, oddly pleased with this cautiously optimistic House. "I'm glad. Given a choice, you'd have thrown the cane away for good and be running around unassisted last week, and I understand that. But just take it slow, all right?"

"All right, why don't we slowly make our way to the bedroom…" he leered, hand running down her back to cup her ass.

"How about the kitchen instead?"

"I like the way you think!"

"No, sorry to disappoint. First of all, you're still recovering from being shot, so no physical exertion for a while. Secondly, I haven't had anything to eat since lunch and you've got to have at least something edible hiding in there."

"Does my new freedom from pain mean I'm no longer going to be able to guilt you into cooking for me?"

"I've cooked for you twice, and all either of those involved were boiling water and use of the microwave."

"Such a tragic lack of frying or grilling skills! Why don't you go find plates and I'll go find takeout menus?"

Cuddy smiled and rose from the couch, looking back over her shoulder to watch with some satisfaction as he stood and began rummaging through the piles of paper she'd just straightened. There was a smile on his face as, with obvious determination, he moved freely about the room, gathering menus and the telephone.

---


	2. White

Title: WhiteAuthor: Ellie  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: No Reason  
Summary: Post No Reason, the fallout from the ketamine treatment  
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski's "Trois Couleurs" trilogy, which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag. The second of three, following "Blue".

---

He woke suddenly, jolted from slumber by the possible return of an old familiar. It was still dark outside, though a few harsh rays of streetlight filtered through the Venetian blinds to cast odd shadows over the woman sprawled next to him.

Even in sleep she was not cuddly; limbs akimbo, she took up most of his bed, yet she touched him only where her toes whispered against his calf and her left hand rested on his left bicep. It made slipping away from her easier.

As he stood, he took a deep, bracing breath. Instead of soothing him, the scent of their lovemaking and her perfume nagged at him. Silently, he limped out of the room, less surely than he'd made his way in there earlier in the evening.

Only as he sunk down on the creaking leather sofa did he allow himself a small groan of pain and frustration. For several months, he'd been feeling better. Had regained a bit more mobility and used his cane less. Had been almost happy.

Now there was dull ache in his thigh once more. Before, he wouldn't have noticed it, so much less intense than the normal pain level to which he'd grown accustomed. But suddenly it was there, low and insistent, ghostly enough to hint at a return of something much worse.

His fingers twitched with the barely restrained urge to pop open a pill bottle, but they'd disposed of all the Vicodin. Rationally he knew that this pain was nowhere near requiring it, but old habits and addictions die hard. Instead, his fingers sought out the aching muscle, trying to knead the pain away.

As he did so, he realized that there was half a bottle of vodka in the freezer. He paused in his ministrations to ponder the analgesic value of the liquor against giving in to possibly needless fear. He hated irrationality in others, and wouldn't tolerate it from himself. Still the urge to give into old habits was hard; alcohol and Vicodin had always been a palliative before.

Just as he prepared to rise, he heard the rattle of glasses, then the sink. A moment later he saw her pad into view, wearing only his button-down shirt, unbuttoned, and carrying a glass of water.

"Here," said Cuddy, handing him two pills and the glass.

He looked up at her in the lightless room, trying to read the expression on a face hidden by shadow and curls.

She sank down onto the couch beside him, tucking her feet up and resting a hand on his shoulder. "It's just aspirin."

Without a word, he swallowed the pills, then downed half the water. For a moment they sat quietly. "How did you know?"

"You're not the only one with intuition."

He twirled the glass in his hand, watching the water swirl and sparkle, catching the traces of light available. The urge to be glib, dismiss all of this, was strong, almost stronger than the desire for Vicodin a moment ago. But he owed them both more than that. "It's hurting. It woke me."

"Like before?" She ran a hand through her hair, brushing it away from her face and revealing a flash of concern.

"No," he said, quickly, reassuring himself more than her. "Less intense, just an insistent dull ache."

"You exerted yourself." She leaned closer, nipped his earlobe, and whispered against his ear, "I told you it was more than was necessary."

He shifted away slightly and turned to face her. "But it was what I wanted! I want to be able to try every position in the Kama Sutra then make up a few more. I don't want to wake up agonizing over my leg because it hurts after I ate you out then fucked you from behind!"

"And I'd like to fuck you without worrying that you'll wake up jonesing for narcotics at three in the morning. So we try some different things, see what works and what doesn't. If you wake up hurting, we know that doesn't work, and try something different next time."

"I shouldn't wake up jonesing." He doesn't want to admit this about himself. He doesn't want to have this discussion, not now, not ever. But the dark makes it easier, lets him talk to an empty water glass instead of the perceptive eyes beside him.

Anyone else would be tender, reassuring, coddling. She is not anyone else. "You were an addict, Greg. There will always be nights when you wake up wanting, sometimes for no reason at all. You know how addiction functions." She is honest with him, even when it hurts, and he remembers why he loves her enough to discuss this.

"Your course of treatment then, since you have all the answers?" The words are hard, but the tone is not. If only she could hand him answers on a silver platter.

"If I did we wouldn't be having this conversation. We wouldn't be sitting here." He can hear the edge to her voice now, knows she's teetering on the edge of what she's willing to contemplate at this hour. Neither of them like to ponder what-ifs.

"That's not an answer," he says, truly wanting to hear what she has to say. Dodging the question is too easy, and she's better than the easy way out.

"Wake me up. Take some aspirin. Play your piano. What did you do before, when you tried to take your mind off your leg?"

"Bothered you or Wilson. Drank. Played my piano."

"No drinking. But there you go. Distract your mind. You always felt better when your brain was occupied."

"Because distracting myself worked so well previously."

"What do you think you should do?" she asks, trying to turn the tables.

He initially resists the invitation to indulgent self-analysis, but considers the question. "Avoid the urge to self-destruct when self-distraction fails."

"And talk to me before, not after the fact." She was somber now, broking no arguments. He wanted to argue, if only for principle, but knew she should have this one.

"Don't yell at me for ruining your beauty sleep when the phone rings at four in the morning."

When she smiled, the glint of her teeth was startling in the darkness. Leaning close, she whispered, "There's a reason I have caller ID." Before he could answer, she was up off the couch, and he could hear her padding back to the bedroom.

After several deep breaths, he stood and realized the pain was receding. Distractions, he thought, as he followed her back to bed.

---


	3. Red

Title: Red  
Author: Ellie  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: No Reason  
Summary: Post No Reason, the fallout from the ketamine treatment  
Notes: Inspired by Kieslowski's "Trois Couleurs" trilogy, which was in turn inspired by the symbolism of the French flag. The third of three, following "Blue" and "White".

---

His day kept him busy, as his team struggled with a tough case, but not so busy that he'd been unaware of her situation. Just because he'd remained in his office, keeping tabs through the grapevine and a bit of hacking, didn't mean he wasn't following the progress carefully.

The last relevant entry into the computer system had been at 16:23:07, and had left him staring at his monitor with a look that kept Chase cowering by the conference room door for a good five minutes before interrupting him to update him on their patient.

Now it was late, far later than he normally stayed at the hospital, but no one would dare to ask him about his continued presence. A lack of computer file update and a lack of lights in her office convinced him the long hours filled with paperwork and Mario Kart were well spent.

The lights were dimmed and the room was eerily silent when he slid the door open. She sat with her back to the door, and didn't turn as he lumbered in. The squeak as he pulled a chair up next to hers echoed in the silence.

He took her hand in his, felt relief that he'd done the right thing when her chilled fingers tightened almost painfully around his metacarpals. Neither spoke as she stared at her mother and he stared at her pale face. The hint of tears threatened in her eyes, but he knew she would never allow herself to shed them in the hospital.

It seemed an eternity before she sighed and sat back in her chair, looking at him with pleading eyes. He'd never seen her so vulnerable, and wondered where her sword and armor had gone.

He stood, drawing her up with him. "Do you need to stop by your office first?"

She nodded, though both of them knew it wasn't true. There was nothing in her office that wouldn't wait, but she needed a moment before facing questioning eyes as she left, and he knew it, knew her.

"I'll meet you down at your car in ten." He squeezed her hand gently before releasing it, watching it fall back limply by her side.

Lingering for a moment by the elevators, he watched her exit the room and stop at the nurse's station. Her spine was straighter, shoulders back, face composed, and she met the charge nurse's gaze as she spoke. As he stepped into the elevator, he smiled sadly and wished he hadn't just seen the strength of her resolve.

---

They hadn't touched since leaving the hospital, where a brush of hands to pass her car keys to him had left tears welling in her eyes once more.

Comfort was not his forte. It wasn't that he didn't care; it hurt him to see her like this. It was merely that he was not by nature warm and nurturing, and he couldn't stand weeping. But she was not one to coddle, and had been there for him when it really mattered. He owed her this.

She'd wandered through her house in a daze, before sitting down on a stool at her breakfast bar and listlessly plucking a few grapes off the bunch in a bowl on the counter. He watched, at a loss, before crossing the kitchen to turn on the burner under her teakettle because it seemed the thing to do.

As he was rummaging through her cupboards for tea and mugs, she broke the silence. "Do you remember when my dad died?"

He didn't turn to face her, just reached up to retrieve two blue mugs from the shelf and nodded. It had been the spring after they'd been involved, and were barely speaking, until she'd appeared at his door in tears at midnight. His boards had been the next day, but he let her in anyway, held her and drank bad beer and was proud of himself for not taking advantage; she'd been gone in the morning and he hadn't seen her again until his infarction. It was the only time he'd seen her cry.

"It was so slow, so difficult for Mom to watch. She agonized over what to do, what he would have wanted. Afterwards she told me she never wanted to go that way. But I still don't know…" She trailed off as tears finally started to fall.

Without hesitation, he made his way around the island to where she sat and wrapped his arms around her. For all that he taunted her about screaming and yowling, her grief was a quiet one; he wouldn't have known she was crying if her tears weren't soaking through the worn cotton of his t-shirt.

Part of him still wanted her to stop this display of emotion, to return to the stolid, stoic Cuddy he sparred with every day. Yet buried deep down, long-ignored, was an urge to gather her tighter, carry her to the couch and comfort her. He couldn't indulge that desire any more than he could walk away, so he shifted his weight so he leaned against the counter, and held her while she wept.

Her tears were subsiding before he could hear the water beginning to boil in the kettle. Under his hands, he could feel her back straightening, strengthening, as she drew away from him. When she spoke, her voice was rough and tentative. "We help patients make these decisions every day, but when it's you deciding, what you know as a doctor isn't always your gut reaction. And I wonder why it's not."

He tucks a curl back behind her ear and says nothing, knowing she didn't really want an answer from him.

"All I could do was sit there and hold her hand. Like it mattered."

It was his turn to draw away, and he spoke softly, almost whispering. "As someone who's been there, it mattered a great deal." The kettle whistled and he pulled from her loose embrace, stepping away without leaving. As he poured water and added sugar, he thought about the nervous, cool hands in his years ago, and of Cuddy's warm, assured touch. He never mentions them.

She was quiet as she took the mug from him, blowing on the scalding liquid like a child as she watched him settle onto the stool beside her. After a moment, she asked, "What was it like?"

He quirked an eyebrow and sipped the tea, just enough to delay having to answer. He knows what she meant, but he does not talk about this.

"Dying." She refused to look away, though for a moment her gaze falters, and there is fear mixed with her inquisitiveness. That's when he decided to tell her.

"Other people have claimed to see white lights or their lives flashing by, everything they've done. Maybe they have, maybe it's different for everyone, maybe it depends on what you've been conditioned to expect. I knew, before I even saw my readings, that something was wrong. When I arrested there was just a second, like a moment of freefall.

"There's a theory in quantum mechanics that there exist an infinite number of universes filled with all the infinite possibilities of what can be. I experienced all of them, everything that I could have been and could be. But at the same time, I could still feel myself being worked on, feel you shocking me. Not looking down on myself like people have claimed, but could feel you touching me from outside myself. Then I hit the ground and had the wind knocked out of me, and I could feel everything from inside again. Those last, tingling volts." He shrugged. His words sting and bite, they do not express. Never before has he needed to express any of this.

One of her hands reached across to rest on his, joining him in seeking the warmth of the hot ceramic mug, acknowledging. She withdrew her hand as she sipped her tea, then swallowed with a faint smile. "I suppose you liked the life best where you were a fat, lazy emperor who had some scantily clad concubine to feed him grapes."

"No, too much chance of being overthrown and beheaded. Producing porn films really seemed the way to go—hot chicks, no real responsibility, lots of sex."

That drew a laugh from her, a short sharp bark that didn't quite reach her eyes. Within a few seconds, she was solemn once more. "I should call Amy, see what time she and Heather are flying in tomorrow."

"Is Danny coming up?"

"Yeah, he's taking the train up after a lunch meeting with some congressman."

"Ah." House nodded and watched her slip from the stool, snagging the phone as she left the kitchen. He listened as she carried the phone back to her bedroom, then frowned down at the mugs of tea. The polite thing to do would be clean them up, but he hated cleaning on principle. She got a pass for grieving, he supposed, and with a sigh whose dramatic effect was lost without an audience, carried them to the sink and washed them.

Stepping into the hallway he paused, considered calling a taxi and going home. Then he saw her bedroom door ajar, and heard the faint slosh of bathwater. He reconsidered and turned to her living room instead, settling himself on the couch and doing some channel surfing. As the water came on once more, he paused on ESPN and wondered when poker had become a sport, then flipped on by.

Two hours later, he'd grown bored with old movies and bad comedians and made his way back to her bedroom, now that she'd had some time and space. The room was dim, but he could see her curled on the far edge of the bed. Without a word, he stripped to his boxers and t-shirt and slipped between the cool sheets.

He'd intended to wrap himself around her, but before he had the chance, she'd turned and flung herself onto him. She said nothing, just buried her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around him.

Recovering from the shock, he settled back into the pillows and ran one hand down her spine and rested it on her hip, just at the hem of the t-shirt she wore. For just a moment, he toyed with the idea of skimming his hand up under the soft fabric, then figured he'd managed to avoid taking advantage while younger and stupider and should live up to the same standard now, being older and a bit wiser. He kissed the top of her head and knew neither of them would sleep well.

---

End


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